My apologies for such a long absence. I normally would not have gone this long without making a post of any kind, but truth be told, I'm in a phase where I could really give a shit.
Sure, I could have posted 500 of the Obama/Pelosi/Liberals/Feminists/Muslims-Are-Stupid-type articles over the last month and a half. Heck, I can do that in my sleep. The problem is that it gets repetitive. One can only make the same self-obvious statements (well, to anyone with a pulse and a baboon-level IQ, that is) before one begins to feel as if there is no point to it. That is to say, there is no point in making the same points.
Showing posts with label Homosexuals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Homosexuals. Show all posts
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Profile This...
The Scene: A local coffee shop, this past Thursday morning.
Your favorite Lunatic has just sat down to read the menu, knowing full well that no matter what is on it he will order his "usual" -- two over easy, sausage and bacon, home fries, wheat toast, orange juice and coffee -- when he becomes aware of a conversation at another table not 5 feet away.
"Becomes aware" is a polite way to put it. Actually, the two young men engaged in this conversation (it was more like a monologue with one man haranguing the other who could do little more than shake his head, occasionally mutter "word!", "I heard that!" or "I feel you, Brother!") were speaking loud enough to wake the dead.
It became apparent, from both the tone of the conversation and it's subject matter, that this was done on purpose -- that is to say, that the subject was being brought up loudly and obnoxiously so that others in the coffee shop would be made to feel uncomfortable.
That's because the two men speaking were black, and the majority of the clientele was white.
Your favorite Lunatic has just sat down to read the menu, knowing full well that no matter what is on it he will order his "usual" -- two over easy, sausage and bacon, home fries, wheat toast, orange juice and coffee -- when he becomes aware of a conversation at another table not 5 feet away.
"Becomes aware" is a polite way to put it. Actually, the two young men engaged in this conversation (it was more like a monologue with one man haranguing the other who could do little more than shake his head, occasionally mutter "word!", "I heard that!" or "I feel you, Brother!") were speaking loud enough to wake the dead.
It became apparent, from both the tone of the conversation and it's subject matter, that this was done on purpose -- that is to say, that the subject was being brought up loudly and obnoxiously so that others in the coffee shop would be made to feel uncomfortable.
That's because the two men speaking were black, and the majority of the clientele was white.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Things I Wish I Could Say Out Loud, Part One...
Ah, how one longs for the good old days, when seemingly no subject was considered taboo, and one could voice one's opinion without having half the room you're in cringe and go "ewwww!'.
I was thinking of this not too long ago, after the death of actress Jean Stapleton was announced. For those of you who were born into the permanently puckered rectum version of this world (that would be post-Clinton Administration), Ms. Stapleton gained lasting fame and American-icon status as Edith Bunker, the long-suffering, dingbat-but-possessed-of-a-simple-wisdom bride of one Archie Bunker on television's All in the Family.
For those of you who believe television history began and ended with the first episode of Survivor, All in the Family was a situation comedy that aired in the early 1970's and ran into the 1980's which was, to put it mildly, grossly politically incorrect by today's anal-retentive standards. Which means that no one could even think of making All in the Family in this day-and-age. Anyone who tried would be shot outside the television producer's office for even suggesting it.
I was thinking of this not too long ago, after the death of actress Jean Stapleton was announced. For those of you who were born into the permanently puckered rectum version of this world (that would be post-Clinton Administration), Ms. Stapleton gained lasting fame and American-icon status as Edith Bunker, the long-suffering, dingbat-but-possessed-of-a-simple-wisdom bride of one Archie Bunker on television's All in the Family.
For those of you who believe television history began and ended with the first episode of Survivor, All in the Family was a situation comedy that aired in the early 1970's and ran into the 1980's which was, to put it mildly, grossly politically incorrect by today's anal-retentive standards. Which means that no one could even think of making All in the Family in this day-and-age. Anyone who tried would be shot outside the television producer's office for even suggesting it.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Japan Needs Another Nuking, Methinks...
Now, I don't mean to pick on the Japanese. I have spent a great deal of time with many Japanese people (I once worked for two Japanese companies) and have found the majority to be regular Joes and Janes, and only a few would be what one could charitably call "eccentric" on one end of the scale, and "full-blown, wild-hair-up-their-asses insane" at the other extreme.
And let's face it; you have to admire a country that has soldiered on successfully in the wake of multiple earthquakes, tsunamis, utter defeat in war, and Lord only knows how many visits from Godzilla and Gamera.
Between the B-29's, Pacific Plate, atomic radiation-produced freaks of nature and at least one visit from the Top Gear guys, Tokyo has probably suffered more and worse disasters than the Carter and Obama Administrations, combined.
However, in recent years, it seems the Japanese have collectively gone batshit insane.when it comes to the subject of sex. And one need no more proof of this than a quick thought about the newest sexual fetish to strike the Land of the Rising Sun.
Eyeball licking.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Some Thoughts on the Olympics…
I was forced to watch the opening ceremonies of the 2012 London Olympics last night.
Tess was all excited by the thought of the spectacle, and got into one of those passive-aggressive moods of hers, in which failure to comply with her wishes – in this case, that we “enjoy” something that I find about as interesting as dry toast, and about as exciting as a case of toenail fungus – as “a couple”.
This is, after all, she tells me, what “couples do”.
She gets into these moods, with this sort of strange ideal surrounding it, every so often, and rather than have to deal with the complete bullshit (the expression of which ranges from the emanation of a simple “attitude” all the way up to “full Menstrual Fury”), it’s easier to give in, keep my mouth shut, and make her happy, just to spare myself the additional pain of all the “if you loved me, you’d make an effort…” nonsense.
Women…can’t live with ‘em, and you can’t kill ‘em…
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
This is What The (Liberal) One Percent Do With Their Money...
And when I say "One Percent" I mean the One Percent that has more money than brains and threw it at Obama in the same way that women used to throw their underwear at Tom Jones.
You know how I know that these people are Obama voters? Watch the slideshow and find out:
Monday, May 28, 2012
Use Your Inside Voice, Please...
I've heard parents say this to their children at least a million times.
Sometimes, it's apparently necessary to remind supposed adults to do the same thing; not always because they're yelling their lungs out, but because the subject matter of their conversations might not be considered proper in the presence of any of the following:
a. polite company
b. mixed company
c. children
This was the case at a barbecue that I attended yesterday.
Sometimes, it's apparently necessary to remind supposed adults to do the same thing; not always because they're yelling their lungs out, but because the subject matter of their conversations might not be considered proper in the presence of any of the following:
a. polite company
b. mixed company
c. children
This was the case at a barbecue that I attended yesterday.
Sunday, May 06, 2012
Thursday, July 14, 2011
National Marlboros and Twinkies Day...
It is ironic, no, that's the wrong word...it's sad...that in this day-and-age of the West 'bringing freedom and democracy' to the brain-dead-bass-ackwards-intolerant Muslim World, the West itself becomes just a little bit more like those Muslims with every passing day.
As far as smoking bans go, this one is quite tame compared to the oppressive regime we Smokers here in Fuhrer Bloomdouche’s New Yorkistan must suffer. However, when you start to discuss the possibility of discrimination in employment because of a person’s willingness to engage in a legal activity that government has collected untold hundreds of billions from for centuries, you’re starting to wander off the reservation of 'caring' about your fellow men and into the hypocritical minefield of totalitarianism.
Smoking Bans are quite popular these days, and smokers are perhaps the last group of people on Planet Earth that one can, in a socially-acceptable sense that requires nothing more than a great deal of moral sermonizing, openly discriminate against. Oh, and the Fatties. You can discriminate against them, too.
The reason being that the habits of Smokers and Fatties have long drawn the disapproval of so-called Liberals who consider both a blight upon the landscape, an easy source of tax dollars, and a wonderful target of opportunity in the fight to bring about socialist tyranny one baby step at a time. After all, how sweet is it that one can torment, brutalize, unfairly tax, discriminate, and hold up for public approbation and humiliation their fellow Men under the cover of the bromide “I’m only worried about your health, and the health of others” and not have to mean a single word of it?If you only ever understand one thing about Liberalism, then understand this:
Liberalism is never about your freedom. It's never about your right to live as you choose. It's never about your benefit; it's always about the Libtard being able to reorder society according to his or her own often-questionable tastes and ideals. Liberals don't want the power to 'take care of you'; they want the power to make you live as they see fit as a matter of their own personal physical and mental comfort.
Some will make the argument that Smokers and Fatties are millstones hung around the neck of society, as their habits are more likely to cost the State billions in health care costs, and thanks to many junk science studies about secondhand smoke and the supposedly bad health risks associated with excess body weight, you have, if you’re a good little Leftard with dreams of wielding the power to tell everyone else how to live, a ready excuse to let your inner tyrant fly.
I’m going to engage in a little experiment here, one Libtards engage in all the time. Bear with me, this might be instructive. It's called The Game of Moral Equivalence That Really Has No Moral Component.
If one were to say that smoking and obesity bring with them a great number of potential health risks, and these risks cause a great deal of expense in terms of rising insurance and treatment costs which others must bear, therefore, smokers and the obese must be shamed, taxed, made to change their habits against their wills, and otherwise blamed for all of society’s evils, then please explain the following:
If smoking and over-eating kill, and drain the public coffers, and are otherwise habits that can either be avoided or reformed through the use of taxation, regulation, and discrimination, then why has no one applied a similar program of enlightened oppression against Homosexuals?
After all, homosexual activity often leads to AIDS, which we all know is a deadly, incurable disease, that often requires a great deal of money and specialized medical care to treat. I wonder, if we added up the costs associated with the health risks of smoking, obesity and AIDS, if the numbers wouldn’t, in proportion, show AIDS to be every bit as deadly, every bit as expensive to treat, and as easily-avoidable as lung cancer or diabetes.
Why aren’t the health care advocates out there railing against butt sex as a deadly threat to society that costs the taxpayer billions, and as a disgusting habit that often carries with it unacceptable behavioral and health risks to innocent bystanders? I mean, because of AIDS, right here in New York City, we give free needles away to heroin addicts as an anti-AIDS measure. Because of AIDS, then, we've encouraged and subsidized drug addiction -- another expensive public health problem! -- haven't we?
Oh, right: because most Leftards are probably gay, and heroin addicts. But I (only-half) jest, of course. The real reason is because open homosexuality is one of the devices the Left depends upon to sap the moral strength of a free people, to destroy the bonds between family members and communities, and to encourage all sorts of vices and attitudes which can later be manipulated for political advantage.
If we’re going to be discriminating against people because of their habits and the supposed cost/threat to society, then let’s start prioritizing the costs/threats accordingly. When the day comes when homosexuals are discriminated against because of their behavior and the health risks associated with it – not to mention the crippling financial drain incurred in treating AIDS -- then I’d say we have True Equality in America.
I know plenty of Smokers who have lived good, long lives, free of medical complaint, with nary a cancer cell in sight.
I know plenty of Obese people who have lived full, active lives, without the trouble of diabetes or weight-related bone/joint issues.
I know plenty of Smokers/Obese people who pay for their own private health coverage, and who do not have to – nor want to – depend upon the state for their well-being and health.
I also know plenty of homosexuals who have caught AIDS – and often brag about it because it brings them sympathy and a mess of attention (which is what all homosexuals want, anyways. It's why they 'chose' to be gay in the first place!) , not to mention federal funds – who do nothing but try as hard as they might to obtain the drug cocktails they need to stay alive (and thus spread the AIDS virus, because let’s face it; they’re often not giving up sex, are they?) at someone else’s expense.
It’s not an automatic that a smoker dies of cancer, or that he/she spreads cancer through secondhand smoke. It is not an automatic that an obese person is going to spend years in a hospital bed in a special ward sucking up tax dollars like a sponge for treatment, or going through replacement knees like I use toilet paper.
It is, however, an automatic that a homosexual with full-blown AIDS is fighting a losing battle, and would most certainly die without $3,000-a-dose anti-viral drugs that he possibly can’t afford for long on his own, constant monitoring of his health status, and other expensive courses of treatment.
So, why do we pick on Smokers and Fatties?
Because they’re not sympathetic ‘victims’ with a political utility, that’s why.
I think it’s time the Smokers and Fatties of the World United, and stopped this insanity, began to expose some of these double standards, and engaged in a fight to restore our right to live our lives as we goddamned please, and give the shit our elected officials and the busy-body-Nanny-staters give us back tenfold.
I hereby declare today National Marlboros and Twinkies Day. Light one up for freedom! Suck down a Twinkie in defense of your rights! And make sure you do it in the face of the most insufferable leftist douchebag you know, and if she (it’s usually a she) has anything to say about your ‘disgusting’ behavior, then blow smoke in her face and squish the rich, creamy filling into her hair, sending her screaming into that good night like a Arab who’s just found out his fourth wife has a dick under that burqa.
Or at least punch her square in the mouth. Just on general principles.
And while you’re at it, tell every homosexual you know that you’re not inclined to pay for his treatment when he finally (not if, always when) catches AIDS.
It’s time to start fighting back.
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
It Has Something to Do With Balls...
...and how you use them, apparently.
Gay Softball League Argues Over The Definition of 'Gay'.
To paraphrase Orwell "Some Gays are More Equal Than Others", it seems.
Gay Softball League Argues Over The Definition of 'Gay'.
To paraphrase Orwell "Some Gays are More Equal Than Others", it seems.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
It's Supposed to Be Prison, Dammit!
Transgendered sex offenders? Maybe the world should have been destroyed last week, after all, huh?
Three questions:
1. Why is this person even still alive? Didn't HeShe kill HisHer Wife?
2. How long after HeShe gets HisHer way and has the taxpayer fund his genital reconstruction surgery, do you think we'll be hearing this piece of shit wants to be gay married?
3. What happened to the idea that prison was supposed to be about PUNISHMENT? It's supposed to be terrible, brutal, inhumane, and totally unconcerned with the inmates' notions of personal happiness! Otherwise, what deterrent value does prison hold?
I have a serious issue with this idea that a prison system is supposed to cater to an inmate's particular brand of mental dysfunction with taxpayer-funded surgery. Yes, we do have a moral and legal responsibility to ensure that inmates in our prisons have access to a relatively fair level of basic medical care, and those with serious mental issues do require and deserve all the help the state can offer, but at what point do we go too far?
What's next? Penile implants for prisoners? Baldness therapies? Plastic surgery?
You know this douchebag is only doing this because it's a way to 'get even' with the society that imprisoned him (almost all homosexuals engage in their behavior a means of rebellion against conventional society, and as a rejection of conventional morality), and because it might make him slightly more attractive to a better class of prison rapist (the kind that likes to cuddle afterwards, instead of just beat the piss out of you).
And of course, once this scumbag gets his way, HeShe'll have to be kept in a special cage, segregated from the general population, if only to keep HimHer alive. You have to wonder: at some point in all this stupidity, would someone go through all of this bullshit just to make his prison stay a bit more comfy? I mean, we're talking medcial mutillation here. Wouldn't doubt it; some people are that fucking crazy.
Three questions:
1. Why is this person even still alive? Didn't HeShe kill HisHer Wife?
2. How long after HeShe gets HisHer way and has the taxpayer fund his genital reconstruction surgery, do you think we'll be hearing this piece of shit wants to be gay married?
3. What happened to the idea that prison was supposed to be about PUNISHMENT? It's supposed to be terrible, brutal, inhumane, and totally unconcerned with the inmates' notions of personal happiness! Otherwise, what deterrent value does prison hold?
I have a serious issue with this idea that a prison system is supposed to cater to an inmate's particular brand of mental dysfunction with taxpayer-funded surgery. Yes, we do have a moral and legal responsibility to ensure that inmates in our prisons have access to a relatively fair level of basic medical care, and those with serious mental issues do require and deserve all the help the state can offer, but at what point do we go too far?
What's next? Penile implants for prisoners? Baldness therapies? Plastic surgery?
You know this douchebag is only doing this because it's a way to 'get even' with the society that imprisoned him (almost all homosexuals engage in their behavior a means of rebellion against conventional society, and as a rejection of conventional morality), and because it might make him slightly more attractive to a better class of prison rapist (the kind that likes to cuddle afterwards, instead of just beat the piss out of you).
And of course, once this scumbag gets his way, HeShe'll have to be kept in a special cage, segregated from the general population, if only to keep HimHer alive. You have to wonder: at some point in all this stupidity, would someone go through all of this bullshit just to make his prison stay a bit more comfy? I mean, we're talking medcial mutillation here. Wouldn't doubt it; some people are that fucking crazy.
Friday, May 27, 2011
This Is Why You Should Never, Ever, Donate Bodily Fluids...
...unless there is a deep level of personal commitment. I wouldn't even think of giving mine to someone who wouldn't, at the very least, make me breakfast before she left, and then didn't make the effort to forget my address or phone number.
And if you can't make the delivery yourself in the time-honored fashion, then you don't want anything to do with being a sperm donor, either. It's not worth it if there's a turkey baster involved. If your recipients are a pair of lesbian chicks you wouldn't fuck without a steel-reinforced concrete condom and a fifth of Johnny Black, then you probably don't even want to be in the same house with that womb. If one of them lists her occupation as 'clairvoyant' and 'funeral celebrant', you definitely don't sell your seed for anything less than your weight in gold, and even then, you might think twice.
Here's another argument against Gay Marriage (as if the anti- argument wasn't already self-evident): how do you redefine 'Fatherhood' when the Warm-and-Fuzzies wear off between the Primaries, and you have to consider the rights of the gamete donor in the 'divorce'?
I feel for this guy, because he has been a father in all respects, it would seem. Especially financially; this pair of carpet-munchers wanted children, but children that someone else would pay for, looks like. This guy paid for the pre-natal care, the midwife, child support, and even offered housing to the mother and the defective she was playing house with. The child, to the...ahem...women, appears but a prop in their bullshit 'lifestyle choice' kabuki play.
He even offered to build them all a house to live in!
I hope this guy can get his daughter away from this pair of ding-dongs.
And if you can't make the delivery yourself in the time-honored fashion, then you don't want anything to do with being a sperm donor, either. It's not worth it if there's a turkey baster involved. If your recipients are a pair of lesbian chicks you wouldn't fuck without a steel-reinforced concrete condom and a fifth of Johnny Black, then you probably don't even want to be in the same house with that womb. If one of them lists her occupation as 'clairvoyant' and 'funeral celebrant', you definitely don't sell your seed for anything less than your weight in gold, and even then, you might think twice.
Here's another argument against Gay Marriage (as if the anti- argument wasn't already self-evident): how do you redefine 'Fatherhood' when the Warm-and-Fuzzies wear off between the Primaries, and you have to consider the rights of the gamete donor in the 'divorce'?
I feel for this guy, because he has been a father in all respects, it would seem. Especially financially; this pair of carpet-munchers wanted children, but children that someone else would pay for, looks like. This guy paid for the pre-natal care, the midwife, child support, and even offered housing to the mother and the defective she was playing house with. The child, to the...ahem...women, appears but a prop in their bullshit 'lifestyle choice' kabuki play.
He even offered to build them all a house to live in!
I hope this guy can get his daughter away from this pair of ding-dongs.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
You're Not Special; You're Just Crazy...
Andrea Peyser in the New York Post on Self-mutilation as the ultimate attention getter.
You know you're in trouble when the GLAAD people, in so many backhanded-and-catty words, call you 'fat' and 'insane'.
I don't know Chaz Bono, and don't really care to, so I'm going to make some generalized observations about his/her case. I'm also not a psychiatrist -- I only play one on the Internet, and psychiatry is mostly bullshit, anyway -- so the only way to try to explain this is by applying logic, which already puts me on shaky ground before I even begin.
1. Chaz Bono grew up with famous parents, who were Hippies, and so they were certain to have raised HeShe with some rather strange ideas, most of which probably involved indulging any stupidity Chaz wanted or got involved with. This, you know, builds 'self-esteem', which was all the rage with parents of the time (it was a codeword for 'whatever the kid wants, the kid gets, if it means I'm 'a cool Mom/Dad' -- and keeps the little bastard out of my hair) and which, as a concept, has expanded to become a fucking pox upon Modern Society. We're knee deep in everyones Self-Esteem, but it never seems to occur to anyone who cries about not having any that it's usually earned through achievement, and not granted as a right because you sat through the 30 minute 3rd-grade-level-lecture-and-certificate-ritual at a public school.
Having famous parents, I would imagine, is no picnic. Everyone wants their attention and caters to them, so I wonder if at some point, Chaz felt less like a child, or even a human being, and more like an accessory.
2. Over-indulged children who have retarded/disinterested parents who 'encourage' them to pursue rank stupidity for fear of criticizing or disciplining the little buggers (and thus crushing their fragile self-esteem) become spoiled adults who expect to receive similar treatment from everyone they meet in their adult lives. Because the parents didn't set any boundaries, didn't cater to the child's feelings, and imposed no values upon their little genetic mess, the little bastard soon
a. figures out that it can do whatever the fuck it pleases, and
b. quickly becomes bored with the usual litany of childhood stupidity, and thus, must seek ever more exotic and complicated stupidity as it grows older. The more dramatic and complicated the stupidity, the greater the attraction.
3. Over-indulged children, bereft of values, boundaries, and interested/attentive parents, soon find their way into trouble as a means of getting attention. Often negative attention, because the worse the activity the greater the response from the uninvolved parents. It's all about provoking a response...any response. At heart, all people who fall into this category of insanity are always seeking both the approval and the guidance of, or more accurately a rescue effort by, Mommy and Daddy Dearest.
4. The mollycoddled-yet-still-clamoring-for-parental-attention child soon runs the gamut of anti-social behavior in it's teenaged years, usually starting with smoking, and then progressing to promiscuity, defiance, rebellion, casual use of foul language, a Gothic/Punk stage, body-piercings, perhaps vandalism and petty crime, tattoos, drug and alcohol abuse, and perhaps even several (unserious) suicide attempts, and usually a mixture of All of the Above.. When this fails to bring the attention they truly crave (which is for their parents to start acting like fucking parents and provide some guidance), the activity must become ever more severe, and an even-greater rejection of traditional values which is intended to shock the sensibilities; homosexuality, sexual fetishes, cross-dressing, perhaps a string of abusive relationships (either as bully or victim), and finally, the ultimate shocker: Surgically-aided Self-mutilation with that added bonus of the rejection/warping of traditional gender norms.
Chaz Bono is simply someone who has been crying out for her parents HisHer entire life, probably, and never got the response HeShe desperately craved, and maybe never ever gave voice to. After all, she was most likely handed everything in life, and expected her parents to mystically divine what was in her head; it's how this Game Gets Played, you know. Had Chaz ever come right out and say what HeShe had wanted, and expected, from It's parents, it would have either stopped the gravy-train of over-indulgence dead in it's tracks, or it would have fallen upon deaf ears. HeShe has now entered the Penultimate phase in the attempt to get some attention. Even negative attention. The very last step is a massive overdose and/or a nosedive out a 50th floor window, with a shotgun wound to the head, just for good measure.
And then the Media, because it too, is a collection of mentally-deranged morons, will lead the Nation in the obligatory contrived orgy of manufactured and insincere grief for what amounts to a non-entity who's never accomplished a thing in HisHer life. Three days later, because the public's attention span is shorter than a dwarf at a urinal, we will forget the entire thing. Why does anyone really care, when even HisHer parents didn't, after all? Besides, the new season of Jersey Shore begins tonight.
Until Cher -- predictably -- uses the tragedy to re-launch her career, of course.
I don't pity Chaz Bono and I don't find HimHer even slightly interesting in the least. I regard this sick lump of humanity in the same way one might regard an enema; an unpleasant experience you hope ends rather quickly, with as little stench left behind as possible. I'd rather watch my fingernails grow, or count the blades of grass on my front lawn than to watch It on television. I'm not fascinated by Chaz's orgy of extreme Look-at-Me-ism, and resent the idea that some idiot in television believes that I might be. The one thing I certainly never want to hear is the constant whining of someone who mutilates their body, rejects all the standards of contemporary society, and engages in behavior that is disturbing. destructive and disgusting, cry about 'how hard it is to be Me..."
Especially when the Whiner is the scion of stupid-rich 'entertainers' and ersatz 'cultural icons' of questionable talent, taste, and intelligence, given every advantage in life, and who will, naturally, expect to be held up as some sort of role model by people even dumber than they are.
Before I get the usual round of accusations of being a 'homophobe' and a 'hater, I don't hate people for 'being gay'; I hate people for being stupid and selfish. I've known quite a number of gay people in my lifetime and they all seem to possess the same, often-distasteful, qualities: an insatiable thirst for constant attention and reassurance, and a mistaken belief that 'no one understands me.' You weren't 'born this way', and you're not expressing a 'preference', nor making a 'lifestyle choice'; you're basically telling the rest of us that since we don't recognize your self-professed Greatness that you will shit all over our cherished beliefs and sensibilities as a means of revenge....and getting attention. So fuck off with your nasty e-mails. I've heard it all already.
You know you're in trouble when the GLAAD people, in so many backhanded-and-catty words, call you 'fat' and 'insane'.
I don't know Chaz Bono, and don't really care to, so I'm going to make some generalized observations about his/her case. I'm also not a psychiatrist -- I only play one on the Internet, and psychiatry is mostly bullshit, anyway -- so the only way to try to explain this is by applying logic, which already puts me on shaky ground before I even begin.
1. Chaz Bono grew up with famous parents, who were Hippies, and so they were certain to have raised HeShe with some rather strange ideas, most of which probably involved indulging any stupidity Chaz wanted or got involved with. This, you know, builds 'self-esteem', which was all the rage with parents of the time (it was a codeword for 'whatever the kid wants, the kid gets, if it means I'm 'a cool Mom/Dad' -- and keeps the little bastard out of my hair) and which, as a concept, has expanded to become a fucking pox upon Modern Society. We're knee deep in everyones Self-Esteem, but it never seems to occur to anyone who cries about not having any that it's usually earned through achievement, and not granted as a right because you sat through the 30 minute 3rd-grade-level-lecture-and-certificate-ritual at a public school.
Having famous parents, I would imagine, is no picnic. Everyone wants their attention and caters to them, so I wonder if at some point, Chaz felt less like a child, or even a human being, and more like an accessory.
2. Over-indulged children who have retarded/disinterested parents who 'encourage' them to pursue rank stupidity for fear of criticizing or disciplining the little buggers (and thus crushing their fragile self-esteem) become spoiled adults who expect to receive similar treatment from everyone they meet in their adult lives. Because the parents didn't set any boundaries, didn't cater to the child's feelings, and imposed no values upon their little genetic mess, the little bastard soon
a. figures out that it can do whatever the fuck it pleases, and
b. quickly becomes bored with the usual litany of childhood stupidity, and thus, must seek ever more exotic and complicated stupidity as it grows older. The more dramatic and complicated the stupidity, the greater the attraction.
3. Over-indulged children, bereft of values, boundaries, and interested/attentive parents, soon find their way into trouble as a means of getting attention. Often negative attention, because the worse the activity the greater the response from the uninvolved parents. It's all about provoking a response...any response. At heart, all people who fall into this category of insanity are always seeking both the approval and the guidance of, or more accurately a rescue effort by, Mommy and Daddy Dearest.
4. The mollycoddled-yet-still-clamoring-for-parental-attention child soon runs the gamut of anti-social behavior in it's teenaged years, usually starting with smoking, and then progressing to promiscuity, defiance, rebellion, casual use of foul language, a Gothic/Punk stage, body-piercings, perhaps vandalism and petty crime, tattoos, drug and alcohol abuse, and perhaps even several (unserious) suicide attempts, and usually a mixture of All of the Above.. When this fails to bring the attention they truly crave (which is for their parents to start acting like fucking parents and provide some guidance), the activity must become ever more severe, and an even-greater rejection of traditional values which is intended to shock the sensibilities; homosexuality, sexual fetishes, cross-dressing, perhaps a string of abusive relationships (either as bully or victim), and finally, the ultimate shocker: Surgically-aided Self-mutilation with that added bonus of the rejection/warping of traditional gender norms.
Chaz Bono is simply someone who has been crying out for her parents HisHer entire life, probably, and never got the response HeShe desperately craved, and maybe never ever gave voice to. After all, she was most likely handed everything in life, and expected her parents to mystically divine what was in her head; it's how this Game Gets Played, you know. Had Chaz ever come right out and say what HeShe had wanted, and expected, from It's parents, it would have either stopped the gravy-train of over-indulgence dead in it's tracks, or it would have fallen upon deaf ears. HeShe has now entered the Penultimate phase in the attempt to get some attention. Even negative attention. The very last step is a massive overdose and/or a nosedive out a 50th floor window, with a shotgun wound to the head, just for good measure.
And then the Media, because it too, is a collection of mentally-deranged morons, will lead the Nation in the obligatory contrived orgy of manufactured and insincere grief for what amounts to a non-entity who's never accomplished a thing in HisHer life. Three days later, because the public's attention span is shorter than a dwarf at a urinal, we will forget the entire thing. Why does anyone really care, when even HisHer parents didn't, after all? Besides, the new season of Jersey Shore begins tonight.
Until Cher -- predictably -- uses the tragedy to re-launch her career, of course.
I don't pity Chaz Bono and I don't find HimHer even slightly interesting in the least. I regard this sick lump of humanity in the same way one might regard an enema; an unpleasant experience you hope ends rather quickly, with as little stench left behind as possible. I'd rather watch my fingernails grow, or count the blades of grass on my front lawn than to watch It on television. I'm not fascinated by Chaz's orgy of extreme Look-at-Me-ism, and resent the idea that some idiot in television believes that I might be. The one thing I certainly never want to hear is the constant whining of someone who mutilates their body, rejects all the standards of contemporary society, and engages in behavior that is disturbing. destructive and disgusting, cry about 'how hard it is to be Me..."
Especially when the Whiner is the scion of stupid-rich 'entertainers' and ersatz 'cultural icons' of questionable talent, taste, and intelligence, given every advantage in life, and who will, naturally, expect to be held up as some sort of role model by people even dumber than they are.
Before I get the usual round of accusations of being a 'homophobe' and a 'hater, I don't hate people for 'being gay'; I hate people for being stupid and selfish. I've known quite a number of gay people in my lifetime and they all seem to possess the same, often-distasteful, qualities: an insatiable thirst for constant attention and reassurance, and a mistaken belief that 'no one understands me.' You weren't 'born this way', and you're not expressing a 'preference', nor making a 'lifestyle choice'; you're basically telling the rest of us that since we don't recognize your self-professed Greatness that you will shit all over our cherished beliefs and sensibilities as a means of revenge....and getting attention. So fuck off with your nasty e-mails. I've heard it all already.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Happy Valentine's Day...
Here's a roundup of Valentine's Day News You Can Use, with some demented commentary from Your's Truly.
Although today is supposed to be about the expression of love and affection, we're often reminded that this is not always exactly the case. Whatever it's original purpose, or supposed virtues, Valentine's Day long ago ceased to be about Love and Romance, and is well on it's way to becoming one of those things that quickly becomes a hell of a lot more trouble than it's probably worth.
For example, if you live in Malaysia, Valentine's Day is not a holiday for the...ahem...faint of heart. Because instead of a cheeky greeting card, one is much more likely to receive a fatwa (religious edict) warning against the consequences of immoral behavior, defined as: perhaps showing an ankle, a smooch on the cheek given to someone not your spouse, engaging in decadent "Western" behavior.
Because the origin of Valentine's Day lay in the Christian calendar, of course, and because with the advance of time and the relaxation of sexual mores common in Western culture, it's gone from a religious celebration to a full-bore freight train of promiscuity and material indulgence. If you're a Muslim, these things are bad for you, and can get you killed.
Then again, the words 'Malaysian Islamic Economic Development Department' is an oxymoron. Like 'Democratic Party'. There can be no economic development, Islamic or otherwise, without freedom of thought, expression or conscience. Be that as it may, it seems that Allah frowns upon displays of affection that don't involve shagging a goat in a Scriptually-approved manner. One wonders if somewhere in the Middle East today, some poor woman wrapped head-to-toe in a carpet, and subjected to daily beatings, isn't giving her paramour a heart-shaped (that's actual human-heart-shaped, not that vile Westernized thingy that's rounded at the tops and pointy at the bottom) box of plastic explosives with a lovey-dovey note attached that reads "from your Hostage in Love..."
Somewhere, I'm thinking there's a self-appointed Islamic Morality Hall Monitor disguised as a Malaysian Islamic Economic honcho nodding in agreement with that sort of sentiment.
By the way, when anything with the word 'Islamic' incorporated in it's title says it'll be 'carrying out morality checks' what it really means is that they will beat, maim or kill anyone who doesn't live and behave according to their mentally-constipated worldview. Now there's love for you! And really, what does the 'Islamic Economic Development Council' have to do with morality in the first place, unless it's a deliberate obfuscation of both fact and intent?
And, of course, nothing says "I Love You" in the Islamic World like a good beheading. Even if it takes place in Buffalo.
Ah, the things we do for Love, eh?
If 7th-century-inspired notions of what constitutes love just don't float your boat, you can always settle for the 21st Century American equivalent, which, of course, involves computers, Budweiser, a pre-date "compatibility" questionnaire that has all the romance of a job interview and rectal exam rolled-into-one, and a gross violation of your personal privacy. But hey: it'll help you get laid on this special day. That is, after all, the purpose of the whole exercise, right?
This pretty much proves something that I have investigated (and often proved) many times in the last 20+ years: if you asked ten women, at random, to make the Beast with Two Backs, you'll get at least three positive responses on any given evening. Apparently, if you throw some beer into the mix, your odds of success more than double.
I figured that out at the age of 19, and didn't need a freakin' computer to do it. Nowadays, people are so intellectually-lazy and gadget-oriented (read: dependant) that they won't even fart , let alone fuck, unless there's an app for that. If it wasn't for the fact that I, eventually, Grew Up and put on my Big Boy Pants, I'd still be out there when the mischievous mood struck, chatting up would-be conquests ten at a time.
Had it down to a near-science, too.
(Note to all those who think this is a great idea: it gets boring after a very short time. Mostly because it's waaaaay too easy, and the majority of your takers barely have basic brainstem functions.)
Naturally, this would not be America if there wasn't a small minority of deranged dipshits out there who believe that no activity in the pursuit of your 'soulmate' is too extreme. Even a 24-hour murder spree.
I'm certain that somewhere, there's a clinical psychologist who's furiously trying to explain how stabbing your intended to death is just the mouth-foaming sociopath's way of expressing affection, and we just need to be tolerant of this 'different' manifestation of love, and try to extrapolate this stupidity into a pro-Gay-Marriage argument.
We should stab that so-called doctor to death, too.
As for my own Valentine's Day celebration, well...there won't be one this year. The lady who would be my heart's desire is unavailable to me, alas. Mostly by choice, because she's as big a lunatic as I am, and that just ain't healthy for either of us. As for the Other One that I was, until recently, 'keeping company' with, I tossed her overboard just as soon as I heard those words that now make me break out in a cold sweat and want to reach for a flame-thrower;
"I really, really need your help..."
That 'help', incidentally, didn't involve changing a light bulb, fixing a flat tire, or squashing an inconvenient spider in the bathtub, but was rather an attempt to get me to take some responsibility (i.e. do all the heavy lifting) in 'helping' her sort out her (egregious) personal and familial issues. Sorry, but I'm just not equipped for that anymore; The White Knight has finally hung up his spurs for good. If I'm spending all my time taking care of your issues, then I'm not taking care of mine, thanks very much. Besides, I wasn't ever going to marry you, I don't think, and your kid regards me as the next best thing to Rudolf Eichmann.
Romance, it seems, is dead. What a pity.
In a day-and-age where we're sold the idea that the heart-shaped box of Russel Stover's is the end-all-be-all, where 'Every Kiss begins With Kay', Wal-Mart tries to pass itself off as your Valentine's Day Headquarters by flogging cheap jewelry that no one with taste and a median income near the National Average would buy without chemical stimulus, where the Vermont Teddy Bear is sold as the key to unlocking the vault wherein is hidden the Pearl of Great Price, True Romance is but a few mouse-clicks away on E-Harmony, and where "do for me what I won't do for myself" becomes the basis for, and only purpose of, a one-sided "relationship" that will eventually end in disaster for both parties, it's no fucking wonder.
I think back to simpler days when I used to write a young lady who had snagged my affections love letters. She thought they were the Greatest Thing Ever, and a few days before she married someone else, she told me she had kept every last one...and still read them regularly. I wouldn't be surprised to find that she still had and read them all, 20 years later, because what passes for romance these days is kitchy, tied to outrageous displays of grossly-conspicuous consumption, and always contains at least three pathologies that should have half the country on a psychiatrist's couch somewhere.
It's all become way too impersonal, tied to empty display, or centered upon a formulation wherein personal growth is directly proportional to how well you manage to slough your personal problems off on someone else and frame the issue in terms of "if you love me, you'll do it..."
Excuse me while I vomit at the thought of Valentine's Day.
Whatever happened to those simpler times, when the free Expression of Love -- for it's own sake -- didn't come with a commercial, a political stance, religious repression, physical violence, or it's own chapter in the DSM IV?
Happy Valentine's Day, America. See most of you in the local meat market tomorrow...after you've gotten your Chromium-plated Chocloate Diamond pendant, and shaken off your beer goggles, assuming we haven't been marked for death by the local Islamic Economic Development folks for our sinful, lusty apostasy.
Update: What Women Really Want. If you believe this, you're a douchebag. (H/T Closet Conservative). Probably, it's more like some sick bitch doing research on how to snag a queer dude, and 'convert' him into suitable husband material just so that they can share wardrobes.
Also, What Women Really, Really Want: The Ins-and-Outs of the Marriage Proposal.
Personally, if I ever had a chick who demanded that a Broadway production be made of my marriage proposal as proof of my devotion, I'd do it...but only so I could take the ring back and tell her to go fuck herself -- you selfish bitch -- in front of her friends and family right at the moment of her greatest triumph.
Although today is supposed to be about the expression of love and affection, we're often reminded that this is not always exactly the case. Whatever it's original purpose, or supposed virtues, Valentine's Day long ago ceased to be about Love and Romance, and is well on it's way to becoming one of those things that quickly becomes a hell of a lot more trouble than it's probably worth.
For example, if you live in Malaysia, Valentine's Day is not a holiday for the...ahem...faint of heart. Because instead of a cheeky greeting card, one is much more likely to receive a fatwa (religious edict) warning against the consequences of immoral behavior, defined as: perhaps showing an ankle, a smooch on the cheek given to someone not your spouse, engaging in decadent "Western" behavior.
Because the origin of Valentine's Day lay in the Christian calendar, of course, and because with the advance of time and the relaxation of sexual mores common in Western culture, it's gone from a religious celebration to a full-bore freight train of promiscuity and material indulgence. If you're a Muslim, these things are bad for you, and can get you killed.
Then again, the words 'Malaysian Islamic Economic Development Department' is an oxymoron. Like 'Democratic Party'. There can be no economic development, Islamic or otherwise, without freedom of thought, expression or conscience. Be that as it may, it seems that Allah frowns upon displays of affection that don't involve shagging a goat in a Scriptually-approved manner. One wonders if somewhere in the Middle East today, some poor woman wrapped head-to-toe in a carpet, and subjected to daily beatings, isn't giving her paramour a heart-shaped (that's actual human-heart-shaped, not that vile Westernized thingy that's rounded at the tops and pointy at the bottom) box of plastic explosives with a lovey-dovey note attached that reads "from your Hostage in Love..."
Somewhere, I'm thinking there's a self-appointed Islamic Morality Hall Monitor disguised as a Malaysian Islamic Economic honcho nodding in agreement with that sort of sentiment.
By the way, when anything with the word 'Islamic' incorporated in it's title says it'll be 'carrying out morality checks' what it really means is that they will beat, maim or kill anyone who doesn't live and behave according to their mentally-constipated worldview. Now there's love for you! And really, what does the 'Islamic Economic Development Council' have to do with morality in the first place, unless it's a deliberate obfuscation of both fact and intent?
And, of course, nothing says "I Love You" in the Islamic World like a good beheading. Even if it takes place in Buffalo.
Ah, the things we do for Love, eh?
If 7th-century-inspired notions of what constitutes love just don't float your boat, you can always settle for the 21st Century American equivalent, which, of course, involves computers, Budweiser, a pre-date "compatibility" questionnaire that has all the romance of a job interview and rectal exam rolled-into-one, and a gross violation of your personal privacy. But hey: it'll help you get laid on this special day. That is, after all, the purpose of the whole exercise, right?
This pretty much proves something that I have investigated (and often proved) many times in the last 20+ years: if you asked ten women, at random, to make the Beast with Two Backs, you'll get at least three positive responses on any given evening. Apparently, if you throw some beer into the mix, your odds of success more than double.
I figured that out at the age of 19, and didn't need a freakin' computer to do it. Nowadays, people are so intellectually-lazy and gadget-oriented (read: dependant) that they won't even fart , let alone fuck, unless there's an app for that. If it wasn't for the fact that I, eventually, Grew Up and put on my Big Boy Pants, I'd still be out there when the mischievous mood struck, chatting up would-be conquests ten at a time.
Had it down to a near-science, too.
(Note to all those who think this is a great idea: it gets boring after a very short time. Mostly because it's waaaaay too easy, and the majority of your takers barely have basic brainstem functions.)
Naturally, this would not be America if there wasn't a small minority of deranged dipshits out there who believe that no activity in the pursuit of your 'soulmate' is too extreme. Even a 24-hour murder spree.
I'm certain that somewhere, there's a clinical psychologist who's furiously trying to explain how stabbing your intended to death is just the mouth-foaming sociopath's way of expressing affection, and we just need to be tolerant of this 'different' manifestation of love, and try to extrapolate this stupidity into a pro-Gay-Marriage argument.
We should stab that so-called doctor to death, too.
As for my own Valentine's Day celebration, well...there won't be one this year. The lady who would be my heart's desire is unavailable to me, alas. Mostly by choice, because she's as big a lunatic as I am, and that just ain't healthy for either of us. As for the Other One that I was, until recently, 'keeping company' with, I tossed her overboard just as soon as I heard those words that now make me break out in a cold sweat and want to reach for a flame-thrower;
"I really, really need your help..."
That 'help', incidentally, didn't involve changing a light bulb, fixing a flat tire, or squashing an inconvenient spider in the bathtub, but was rather an attempt to get me to take some responsibility (i.e. do all the heavy lifting) in 'helping' her sort out her (egregious) personal and familial issues. Sorry, but I'm just not equipped for that anymore; The White Knight has finally hung up his spurs for good. If I'm spending all my time taking care of your issues, then I'm not taking care of mine, thanks very much. Besides, I wasn't ever going to marry you, I don't think, and your kid regards me as the next best thing to Rudolf Eichmann.
Romance, it seems, is dead. What a pity.
In a day-and-age where we're sold the idea that the heart-shaped box of Russel Stover's is the end-all-be-all, where 'Every Kiss begins With Kay', Wal-Mart tries to pass itself off as your Valentine's Day Headquarters by flogging cheap jewelry that no one with taste and a median income near the National Average would buy without chemical stimulus, where the Vermont Teddy Bear is sold as the key to unlocking the vault wherein is hidden the Pearl of Great Price, True Romance is but a few mouse-clicks away on E-Harmony, and where "do for me what I won't do for myself" becomes the basis for, and only purpose of, a one-sided "relationship" that will eventually end in disaster for both parties, it's no fucking wonder.
I think back to simpler days when I used to write a young lady who had snagged my affections love letters. She thought they were the Greatest Thing Ever, and a few days before she married someone else, she told me she had kept every last one...and still read them regularly. I wouldn't be surprised to find that she still had and read them all, 20 years later, because what passes for romance these days is kitchy, tied to outrageous displays of grossly-conspicuous consumption, and always contains at least three pathologies that should have half the country on a psychiatrist's couch somewhere.
It's all become way too impersonal, tied to empty display, or centered upon a formulation wherein personal growth is directly proportional to how well you manage to slough your personal problems off on someone else and frame the issue in terms of "if you love me, you'll do it..."
Excuse me while I vomit at the thought of Valentine's Day.
Whatever happened to those simpler times, when the free Expression of Love -- for it's own sake -- didn't come with a commercial, a political stance, religious repression, physical violence, or it's own chapter in the DSM IV?
Happy Valentine's Day, America. See most of you in the local meat market tomorrow...after you've gotten your Chromium-plated Chocloate Diamond pendant, and shaken off your beer goggles, assuming we haven't been marked for death by the local Islamic Economic Development folks for our sinful, lusty apostasy.
Update: What Women Really Want. If you believe this, you're a douchebag. (H/T Closet Conservative). Probably, it's more like some sick bitch doing research on how to snag a queer dude, and 'convert' him into suitable husband material just so that they can share wardrobes.
Also, What Women Really, Really Want: The Ins-and-Outs of the Marriage Proposal.
Personally, if I ever had a chick who demanded that a Broadway production be made of my marriage proposal as proof of my devotion, I'd do it...but only so I could take the ring back and tell her to go fuck herself -- you selfish bitch -- in front of her friends and family right at the moment of her greatest triumph.
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Thanks, Johnny...I Wouldn't Have Known You Were Gay, Otherwise...
Johnny Weir Comes out of the Closet. Just in time to pimp a book.
I don't know about you, but in my mind "gay" and"male figure skater" are redundant terms.
I especially enjoyed this snippet:
"But everything is said for a reason and I really think that America has really accepted me ."
I would tend to believe that if you asked 10 people who Johnny Weir was, 9.8 of them wouldn't have the slightest clue, and that .2 probably has way too much free time on it's hands.
I rather doubt that America, the majority of individuals that makes up America, hardly gives Johnny Weir a second thought, on a good day. Figure skating is not exactly front-page news; about the only time anyone ever really pays any attention is during the Olympics, and although I haven't any evidence to back this claim up, I rather doubt your local Ice Capades performance draws huge crowds, except for the die-hard figure skating set, which is probably made up of gays and little girls. Hardly representative of America, I should think (although it's probably an excellent cross-section of the democratic party).
Then Weir goes on with his love-affair-with-himself, assuming that everyone is intensely fascinated by a man in heavy eye make-up doing a second-rate Liza Minelli impression on ice:
"People say I'm ashamed of myself for not talking about my sexuality, but I'm not scared of anyone and I'm not ashamed of anything that is Johnny Weir."
You know someone has a bit of an ego problem when they refer to themselves in the third person. It's hard to take that kind seriously.
"I think so little of my sex life and my sexual identity simply because I don't have time to have sex and secondly, because I don't think it defines who I am. I didn't choose a sexuality just as I didn't choose to be white."
Now here's something that approaches sense. There is something to be said about this philosophy, although it's pretty difficult to reconcile the ego (I'm not ashamed of anything that is Johnny Weir) with the sensible pronouncement that being gay doesn't define "who I am". I say "difficult to reconcile" these two things because:
a. Johnny Weir, hardly a household name, chooses to push a book about himself by making a big show of "Coming Out", when really, I don't think anyone who was aware of him was ever in doubt about his sexuality. It all seems like forced and badly-manufactured publicity and,
b. If you weren't a gay, sexless, Olympic-champion figure skater coming out of the closet, then who the hell would want to buy your book in the first place?
I'm certain the world of intrigue that is international competitive figure skating is a fascinating subject (yawn!), but if it wasn't for the"gossip" factor in the snippets swirling about this book -- Johnny comes clean with his thoughts about his biggest rivals (people you also have never heard of, or have quickly forgotten) , the cat fight between Johnny and a female skater, the notoriously-corrupt judging system in skating, the novelty 'scandal' of a gay guy who has no time to suck dick, etc. -- then what is it that Mr. Weir expects to sell, exactly? Without the salacious details and junior-high juicy gossip, what's left? A story about an effeminate man who likes to leap and twirl about on ice skates in a sequined bodysuit?
Just what the hell is so interesting about that?
At Least SOMETHING Gets Plowed Around Here....
Post The Great-Snowstorm-Clusterfuck of 2010, wherein New York City's public unions covered themselves in glory for their (non-) work ethic, and petty political grandstanding that paralyzed a city for four days, and perhaps even killed people, we learn what some city employees are actually doing when no one seems to be watching:
First, we have the sordid tale of a $100k-a-year sewer inspector (yeah, you'd have to pay me that much to do that job, too), who uses his official vehicle while propositioning prostitutes, and then tries to flee the police when caught.
It is perhaps appropriate that this man (maybe) earns his livelihood in a sewer. But that's Bush League compared to our next outstanding public servant;
Teacher fired for lesbian sex romp in classroom uses the diabetes defense.
Let's face it, people do stupid things all the time, and by highlighting these two winners I don't intend to imply that ALL public union workers in this city frequent prostitutes, or get drunk during the school day and engage in naked-time revelry. But you have to wonder just what it is that makes people dumb enough to do these things while they're on the job, and in working in their official capacity?
I mean, is the Call to make the Beast With Two Backs that irresistible that it can't wait for after school? That it would cause you to engage in explicitly illegal activity while driving in your conspicuous, official vehicle? It's as if you're not even making an attempt to hide your abhorrent behavior.
First, we have the sordid tale of a $100k-a-year sewer inspector (yeah, you'd have to pay me that much to do that job, too), who uses his official vehicle while propositioning prostitutes, and then tries to flee the police when caught.
It is perhaps appropriate that this man (maybe) earns his livelihood in a sewer. But that's Bush League compared to our next outstanding public servant;
Teacher fired for lesbian sex romp in classroom uses the diabetes defense.
Let's face it, people do stupid things all the time, and by highlighting these two winners I don't intend to imply that ALL public union workers in this city frequent prostitutes, or get drunk during the school day and engage in naked-time revelry. But you have to wonder just what it is that makes people dumb enough to do these things while they're on the job, and in working in their official capacity?
I mean, is the Call to make the Beast With Two Backs that irresistible that it can't wait for after school? That it would cause you to engage in explicitly illegal activity while driving in your conspicuous, official vehicle? It's as if you're not even making an attempt to hide your abhorrent behavior.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
The Haircut...
A Note to All The Ladies Who Visit the Asylum; as a public service, I am about to offer you a FREE piece of advice about the inner-workings of that most disagreeable of creatures: The Man.
This advice will not help you rekindle the romance. It will not give you any greater insight as to what absolute pigs men are (believe me, we are). It will not even help you to better understand us, except in some superficial way. It is an observation, one that I hadn't really made about myself before, but that now having discovered this intriguing bit of unrealized stupidity, I simply must write about it.
In case no one ever told you...
...Men are creatures of habit, and the Older we get, the more set we are in those habits. The more we persist in that sort of stupidity, the more dull and boring life becomes. I would wager that at least a third of divorces arise because some dude won't give up his comfortable, but annoying, habits.
You would think that with all the time I've spent in therapy, I would have noticed this about myself before, and perhaps even taken steps to correct this potentially-dangerous-on-par-with-OCD behavior earlier, but for some reason while I have been able to recognize the really big -and-obvious destructive baggage that I carry, I had never quite noticed this little personality quirk until today.
And it took a Gay Man to bring about this Epiphany.
See, I've needed a haircut for quite some time. In fact, I'm one of those men who finds a trip to the barber shop to be a massive inconvenience, like passing a kidney stone, or having to eventually do the laundry because you've run out of socks and underpants to turn inside-out. My last haircut, before today, was approximately seven months ago. Most people go to a doctor once a year for a physical, I go to the barber but once a year and usually because it's difficult to see, or birds are beginning to nest in my hair. I shave (almost) every day. I often shower twice a day. I'm manic-bordering-on-anal-retentive about creased trousers, perfectly-ironed shirts, and shined shoes, but when it comes to getting a haircut, I'd probably prefer a Clorox enema.
Oh, of course, I can find justifications for this weird behavior: at my advanced age (nearing 44) most of the men I know are losing their hair, while my own magnificent mane continues to flourish, growing like an endless field of wind-blown amber grain. I'm only now starting to go gray, and it's but a few strands here and there, while everyone else my age is already starting to show a little snow on the roof. My hair is probably, on some Freudian level, my visible symbol of continued virility. In a way, I think I'm engaging in what might be called, under different circumstances, female behavior: it's almost as if I'm telling all the other 40-something men "Eat your heart out, sucka!".
Anyways, eventually, even I break down and have to admit that it's time to bring in the harvest. My hair was curling over my collar in the back -- a look that hasn't been popular since the days when David Cassidy could set teenybopper vaginas aflame. My head appeared to have grown to twice it's normal size. I could take the hair hanging down in the front of my head and nearly touch the tip of my nose with it. A few days ago, I was out in the cold, and two hours after my morning shower, my hair was still wet (blow dryers are for pussies!)...and it froze to my scalp. I could actually pick ice crystals out of it.
So, it was time. And herein lie the discovery of my inner Creature of Habit.
I was, unfortunately, very busy this afternoon. Mom is getting more mobile, but is still not fully independent, so this afternoon I was needed to escort her and help her out while she did her errands. One of these errands was a trip to the laundromat. Now, my mother doesn't do what normal people do, and use the laundromat four blocks away, because that would be too easy and would deprive her of the opportunity to annoy the living shit out of me. No, she must use the "better" laundromat (how one makes these distinctions is beyond me) ten blocks away. This conflicts with my desire to, finally, chop the hair off my head in my regular barber's chair. While she sits around waiting for the laundry that I will have to carry back home, I'm looking for the nearest haircutters, just to get the damned thing over with.
And so it was that I walked into one of the newer salons that has just recently opened in the neighborhood. It was nearby. it was convenient. It was full of really cute Korean Girls. That's good enough for me, so I walked in.
I was greeted by a really adorable little thing with funky pigtails, like you usually only see on a Pokemon or in a Japanese anime feature. Immediately, it becomes apparent that there is going to be a little problem with language, my Korean (learned from Korean ex-girlfriends) being limited to about three phrases -- and they shouldn't be repeated in polite company, but I'm going to because you've come to expect that sort of coarseness from me -- are, roughly translated into Engrish...errr...English:
1. Oh My God, that was awesome!
2. Easy! That hurts a little (I like 'em petite, and I am Italian, after all...wink, wink)
3. Not now, you stupid bastard!
So, Funky Pigtails asks me:
You wan' hay-cut?
Yes, I want a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?
You wan' hay-cut?
Yes (pointing at my head) I would like a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?
And then I heard it as clear as day. That sound that reminds one of steam escaping, or of a slow leak in a steel-belted radial.
Yessssss, we cut Men's hair.
Turning, I caught sight of something so funny that I'm amazed that I managed to stifle my laughter. If there's anything funnier than a Gay Hairdresser, it's a Gay Korean Hairdresser. This is a long way away from my usual haircut routine, where I walk into the same place I've gone to for the last five or so years, and they know what to do without asking. In fact, no words are exchanged at all; they just start cutting. I'm caught now. Cornered. I'm used to having women cut my hair (admission: it's vanity. Women rave about my hair), not some skinny dude in skinny jeans with cowboy boots and a bandanna around his neck. There's nothing for it.
I'm about to get some Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
And I'm about to discover that "Yesssss, we cut Men's hair" is about all the English this guy knows.
I try to explain what I want, in a combination of pidgin and hand gestures, and he just stares. When I'm finished, he shakes his head, indicating that this will not do. He tries to explain what he thinks should be done, and I'm not really getting it. I don't speak Hair, nor do I speak Korean Queer. Eventually, for some unknown reason, I simply make a gesture which could be interpreted as "whatever you think is best". Surrender: It's easier that way.
The guy was a scissor demon. I don't think I have ever had someone spend that much time with a pair of scissors on my head, and it wasn't just the considerable amount of hair he took off, either; the guy was working like a sculptor -- a fine cut here, a little adjustment of an angle there, ooops! Missed that little bit over there.
Then he whipped out (pardon the pun) the electric shears. I was now about to go into apoplexy, imagining one of those ridiculous close-cropped monstrosities that passes for fashion these days. All the best Guidos on Staten Island have haircuts that resemble what you get on your first day on Parris Island, only with designs or messages carved into it. The man goes to town with comb and shears, shaving here, slicing there, trimming everywhere. Every so often he stops, and I can't quite tell if he's trying to get some loose shavings out of his way, of if he's trying to turn me on by blowing in my ear, but at this point, I don't give a crap; I'm in the chair for nearly 45 minutes, already. If I had gone to my regular place, I'd have left 20 minutes ago.
Apparently, something wasn't quite up to snuff, so the scissors come out again. I'm not exactly sure what he's trimming and cutting, but he's determined. Every so often, he stops to ask me something I cannot understand, and somehow I find myself reflexively saying "yes, that's fine". Eventually, the job is done; there is an inch-thick pile of hair at the base of the chair. That oversized bib-thingy I'm wearing looks like Magnum, P.I.'s chest. You could construct an entire grizzly bear from what came off my head, I reckon.
And Super-Gay Korean Dude holds up the little mirror, and gives me the rear view (hah! I said "gay" and "rear view"! Oh, I slay me!), the side view and the view from above. I finally look into the big mirror across from the chair, and not only has this dude done an incredible job on my haircut -- it's shorter than I've ever worn it, and I suddenly look thinner and about ten years younger (I already look very young for my age, but this was simply incredible). I'd like to think I'm not a (terribly) vain man, and I will admit that I know jack about fashion and the finer points of personal grooming beyond the occasional snipping of nostril hangers -- I mean, I don't even trim my mustache; when it gets to the point where I'm actually eating it along with my dinner, I simply shave it off and start again -- but this was a revelation.
Creature of Habit. I'd been getting the same haircut, more or less, since high-school, with little variation. Had I ever given much thought to the possibilities of something different, who knows what might have been? I have to say, I felt exceedingly happy about a simple haircut, and in one hour three habits seem to have gone by the wayside:
1. I have decided that I shall get more frequent haircuts.
2. I may have found a new barber.
3. I will resolve from this day forward to occasionally, consciously, break with my usual habits. I will try a new coffee shop. I will order a different sandwich at the deli instead of my usual chicken cutlet/fresh mozzarella/roasted red pepper, fresh garlic and olive oil on Semolina. I will do something different at least once a week from here on in.
It gets better.
On my return to the laundromat that attractive strawberry blond who wouldn't give me a second look when I first walked in? She struck up a conversation. Oh, and I have clean underpants again.
And here is your second piece of free advice, Ladies:
Get your man to break some of his stupid habits (by no means all of them!), and you just might get yourself a New Man in the process.
This advice will not help you rekindle the romance. It will not give you any greater insight as to what absolute pigs men are (believe me, we are). It will not even help you to better understand us, except in some superficial way. It is an observation, one that I hadn't really made about myself before, but that now having discovered this intriguing bit of unrealized stupidity, I simply must write about it.
In case no one ever told you...
...Men are creatures of habit, and the Older we get, the more set we are in those habits. The more we persist in that sort of stupidity, the more dull and boring life becomes. I would wager that at least a third of divorces arise because some dude won't give up his comfortable, but annoying, habits.
You would think that with all the time I've spent in therapy, I would have noticed this about myself before, and perhaps even taken steps to correct this potentially-dangerous-on-par-with-OCD behavior earlier, but for some reason while I have been able to recognize the really big -and-obvious destructive baggage that I carry, I had never quite noticed this little personality quirk until today.
And it took a Gay Man to bring about this Epiphany.
See, I've needed a haircut for quite some time. In fact, I'm one of those men who finds a trip to the barber shop to be a massive inconvenience, like passing a kidney stone, or having to eventually do the laundry because you've run out of socks and underpants to turn inside-out. My last haircut, before today, was approximately seven months ago. Most people go to a doctor once a year for a physical, I go to the barber but once a year and usually because it's difficult to see, or birds are beginning to nest in my hair. I shave (almost) every day. I often shower twice a day. I'm manic-bordering-on-anal-retentive about creased trousers, perfectly-ironed shirts, and shined shoes, but when it comes to getting a haircut, I'd probably prefer a Clorox enema.
Oh, of course, I can find justifications for this weird behavior: at my advanced age (nearing 44) most of the men I know are losing their hair, while my own magnificent mane continues to flourish, growing like an endless field of wind-blown amber grain. I'm only now starting to go gray, and it's but a few strands here and there, while everyone else my age is already starting to show a little snow on the roof. My hair is probably, on some Freudian level, my visible symbol of continued virility. In a way, I think I'm engaging in what might be called, under different circumstances, female behavior: it's almost as if I'm telling all the other 40-something men "Eat your heart out, sucka!".
Anyways, eventually, even I break down and have to admit that it's time to bring in the harvest. My hair was curling over my collar in the back -- a look that hasn't been popular since the days when David Cassidy could set teenybopper vaginas aflame. My head appeared to have grown to twice it's normal size. I could take the hair hanging down in the front of my head and nearly touch the tip of my nose with it. A few days ago, I was out in the cold, and two hours after my morning shower, my hair was still wet (blow dryers are for pussies!)...and it froze to my scalp. I could actually pick ice crystals out of it.
So, it was time. And herein lie the discovery of my inner Creature of Habit.
I was, unfortunately, very busy this afternoon. Mom is getting more mobile, but is still not fully independent, so this afternoon I was needed to escort her and help her out while she did her errands. One of these errands was a trip to the laundromat. Now, my mother doesn't do what normal people do, and use the laundromat four blocks away, because that would be too easy and would deprive her of the opportunity to annoy the living shit out of me. No, she must use the "better" laundromat (how one makes these distinctions is beyond me) ten blocks away. This conflicts with my desire to, finally, chop the hair off my head in my regular barber's chair. While she sits around waiting for the laundry that I will have to carry back home, I'm looking for the nearest haircutters, just to get the damned thing over with.
And so it was that I walked into one of the newer salons that has just recently opened in the neighborhood. It was nearby. it was convenient. It was full of really cute Korean Girls. That's good enough for me, so I walked in.
I was greeted by a really adorable little thing with funky pigtails, like you usually only see on a Pokemon or in a Japanese anime feature. Immediately, it becomes apparent that there is going to be a little problem with language, my Korean (learned from Korean ex-girlfriends) being limited to about three phrases -- and they shouldn't be repeated in polite company, but I'm going to because you've come to expect that sort of coarseness from me -- are, roughly translated into Engrish...errr...English:
1. Oh My God, that was awesome!
2. Easy! That hurts a little (I like 'em petite, and I am Italian, after all...wink, wink)
3. Not now, you stupid bastard!
So, Funky Pigtails asks me:
You wan' hay-cut?
Yes, I want a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?
You wan' hay-cut?
Yes (pointing at my head) I would like a haircut. Do you do Men's hair here?
And then I heard it as clear as day. That sound that reminds one of steam escaping, or of a slow leak in a steel-belted radial.
Yessssss, we cut Men's hair.
Turning, I caught sight of something so funny that I'm amazed that I managed to stifle my laughter. If there's anything funnier than a Gay Hairdresser, it's a Gay Korean Hairdresser. This is a long way away from my usual haircut routine, where I walk into the same place I've gone to for the last five or so years, and they know what to do without asking. In fact, no words are exchanged at all; they just start cutting. I'm caught now. Cornered. I'm used to having women cut my hair (admission: it's vanity. Women rave about my hair), not some skinny dude in skinny jeans with cowboy boots and a bandanna around his neck. There's nothing for it.
I'm about to get some Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
And I'm about to discover that "Yesssss, we cut Men's hair" is about all the English this guy knows.
I try to explain what I want, in a combination of pidgin and hand gestures, and he just stares. When I'm finished, he shakes his head, indicating that this will not do. He tries to explain what he thinks should be done, and I'm not really getting it. I don't speak Hair, nor do I speak Korean Queer. Eventually, for some unknown reason, I simply make a gesture which could be interpreted as "whatever you think is best". Surrender: It's easier that way.
The guy was a scissor demon. I don't think I have ever had someone spend that much time with a pair of scissors on my head, and it wasn't just the considerable amount of hair he took off, either; the guy was working like a sculptor -- a fine cut here, a little adjustment of an angle there, ooops! Missed that little bit over there.
Then he whipped out (pardon the pun) the electric shears. I was now about to go into apoplexy, imagining one of those ridiculous close-cropped monstrosities that passes for fashion these days. All the best Guidos on Staten Island have haircuts that resemble what you get on your first day on Parris Island, only with designs or messages carved into it. The man goes to town with comb and shears, shaving here, slicing there, trimming everywhere. Every so often he stops, and I can't quite tell if he's trying to get some loose shavings out of his way, of if he's trying to turn me on by blowing in my ear, but at this point, I don't give a crap; I'm in the chair for nearly 45 minutes, already. If I had gone to my regular place, I'd have left 20 minutes ago.
Apparently, something wasn't quite up to snuff, so the scissors come out again. I'm not exactly sure what he's trimming and cutting, but he's determined. Every so often, he stops to ask me something I cannot understand, and somehow I find myself reflexively saying "yes, that's fine". Eventually, the job is done; there is an inch-thick pile of hair at the base of the chair. That oversized bib-thingy I'm wearing looks like Magnum, P.I.'s chest. You could construct an entire grizzly bear from what came off my head, I reckon.
And Super-Gay Korean Dude holds up the little mirror, and gives me the rear view (hah! I said "gay" and "rear view"! Oh, I slay me!), the side view and the view from above. I finally look into the big mirror across from the chair, and not only has this dude done an incredible job on my haircut -- it's shorter than I've ever worn it, and I suddenly look thinner and about ten years younger (I already look very young for my age, but this was simply incredible). I'd like to think I'm not a (terribly) vain man, and I will admit that I know jack about fashion and the finer points of personal grooming beyond the occasional snipping of nostril hangers -- I mean, I don't even trim my mustache; when it gets to the point where I'm actually eating it along with my dinner, I simply shave it off and start again -- but this was a revelation.
Creature of Habit. I'd been getting the same haircut, more or less, since high-school, with little variation. Had I ever given much thought to the possibilities of something different, who knows what might have been? I have to say, I felt exceedingly happy about a simple haircut, and in one hour three habits seem to have gone by the wayside:
1. I have decided that I shall get more frequent haircuts.
2. I may have found a new barber.
3. I will resolve from this day forward to occasionally, consciously, break with my usual habits. I will try a new coffee shop. I will order a different sandwich at the deli instead of my usual chicken cutlet/fresh mozzarella/roasted red pepper, fresh garlic and olive oil on Semolina. I will do something different at least once a week from here on in.
It gets better.
On my return to the laundromat that attractive strawberry blond who wouldn't give me a second look when I first walked in? She struck up a conversation. Oh, and I have clean underpants again.
And here is your second piece of free advice, Ladies:
Get your man to break some of his stupid habits (by no means all of them!), and you just might get yourself a New Man in the process.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Don't Ask, Don't Tell Gets Through the Senate...
Via Althouse.
Expect to see this headline very soon:
"Army Medic Court Martialled: Refused to Treat Fallen Comrade He Believed Had AIDS."
Should happen any day now.
It all reminds me of these classic Monty Python Sketches:
The Recruitment Office.
Court Martial/Trivializing the War.
Ooops! I forgot this one!
Expect to see this headline very soon:
"Army Medic Court Martialled: Refused to Treat Fallen Comrade He Believed Had AIDS."
Should happen any day now.
It all reminds me of these classic Monty Python Sketches:
The Recruitment Office.
Court Martial/Trivializing the War.
Ooops! I forgot this one!
Friday, December 17, 2010
...And Since We're Talking About Diversity Training...
A few readers want to know just what kind of vile human being I must be in real life to have had so many experiences with Diversity Training (see: passing mention in previous post). They figure I must be the worst sort of racist/sexist beast, and openly wonder how it is that I've ever kept a job if how I write is how I behave in real life.
To begin with, I have been "sent" to Diversity Training four (4) times.
The first time, it was "required" by management as part of a company-wide policy, itself the result of a series of lawsuits. One of those lawsuits was brought about by members of my own staff, who contended that working in our department subjected them to a "hostile working environment" in which minorities were denied access to higher-skilled (and thus higher-paying) jobs, subjected to racist/sexist humor, and otherwise made to feel "uncomfortable". These complaints were directed mostly at higher management, not me, personally, and were presented as a form of "institutional racism" that direct supervisors (like me) were powerless to overcome, even by direct action. Never mind that the plaintiffs were all, almost to a man, routinely late for work, unprofessional, and on the lower end of the competency scale.
The argument was that it was the COMPANY itself that was racist, not the individuals who worked for it (it's difficult to pin anything on an individual in a court of law without evidence, and only hearsay on your side, you see, so you have to attack The Institution), and that the "racist" policies and tendencies of this inanimate, unconscious, ambiguous, amorphous entity have become part of the overall "culture". So, I was sentenced -- along with the 16,000 or so other people who worked there -- to mandatory Diversity Training. It was a 16-hours-over-two-days tour-de-force of absolute bullshit, where the overriding theme was that "You White-Christian-Male-Straight-Guys are the absolute worst excuses for human beings ever documented...but you don't mean to be, really."
If you've never disliked people before, listen to that kind of crap for two days and then you most certainly will be disgusted by just about everyone.
The Second Time, was when I made the mistake of responding to a vile tirade of a female co-worker by getting just as obnoxious as she did. This particular person was infamous for her foul language and off-color humor and peculiarly-sexual comments, especially about how nice my ass looked to her, and what she'd like to do with me if she ever got me alone. She didn't even make any of that a secret; she would often yell it across several rows of cubicles to me, and everyone got a chuckle out of it (especially the gay guys). It was never a problem between us to trade in these heated-one-day/good-natured-the-next/naughty-all-the-time exchanges, but there was always a healthy respect; a recognition that there were, indeed, boundaries that should not be crossed.
Until she came at me one day like a menstrual banshee for some piece of work important to one of her projects that I was going to be, unavoidably, late with. Then the good-natured-foul-mouthed ribbing became a dressing down of my inadequacies as a human being. To which I replied:
"Take it easy, Jean...Don't get your tits in a knot."
Now the woman who openly remarked about my bodily features and sexual desirability was suddenly mortally offended by my reference to hers. In my defense, though, she did have an awesome rack. Anyways, off to an 8-hour "refresher" course in Diversity for me. I only stayed employed because Jean was known to use the foulest, coarsest language, and to comment frequently and loudly on the looks of the men in the office. That cost me a bonus that year, too.
The third experience was another "mandatory" situation; I would have to complete the Diversity Course as a requirement of employment. It didn't matter that I had two previous "Training" sessions; they didn't count so far as XYZ Corp was concerned because it wasn't their Diversity Course. I spent more time in that classroom than I did working there, because it wasn't long after that my contract was cancelled when the project I was hired to work on was no longer considered necessary. That particular session was a laugh riot, because there were several Hispanic employees in the room complaining that they couldn't get promotions because they weren't native English-speakers.
The "instructor" in that cluster-fuck, herself Hispanic, would sometimes have to switch to Spanish in order to explain a concept to someone who couldn't understand it in English. You can't make this shit up.
My final experience with Diversity Training came when I had a black male employee complain to me that he was not considered for a job (I had hired another person, a black woman, no less), and that he felt that in not giving him the job, I was a racist, showing a definite bias against black men (who made up about half of my staff, at that time. None of them got the job, nor complained about it, either). He called me a racist about 17 times during this exchange, and my temper had finally gotten the best of me, so that I blurted out:
"You didn't not get that job because you're black; I didn't give it to you because you're a fucking retard!"
Well, you can't make that kind of remark, even if it happens to be true, so off to Diversity Training for me once again. Once more into the fray of whining people who don't realize just how fucking ridiculous they sound with their petty, and often-unprovable, accusations. Accusations they only make because they're a) encouraged to do so, and b) know they can get away with the worst exaggerations or baseless claims, and c) hope to extort something for nothing by making them.
To begin with, I have been "sent" to Diversity Training four (4) times.
The first time, it was "required" by management as part of a company-wide policy, itself the result of a series of lawsuits. One of those lawsuits was brought about by members of my own staff, who contended that working in our department subjected them to a "hostile working environment" in which minorities were denied access to higher-skilled (and thus higher-paying) jobs, subjected to racist/sexist humor, and otherwise made to feel "uncomfortable". These complaints were directed mostly at higher management, not me, personally, and were presented as a form of "institutional racism" that direct supervisors (like me) were powerless to overcome, even by direct action. Never mind that the plaintiffs were all, almost to a man, routinely late for work, unprofessional, and on the lower end of the competency scale.
The argument was that it was the COMPANY itself that was racist, not the individuals who worked for it (it's difficult to pin anything on an individual in a court of law without evidence, and only hearsay on your side, you see, so you have to attack The Institution), and that the "racist" policies and tendencies of this inanimate, unconscious, ambiguous, amorphous entity have become part of the overall "culture". So, I was sentenced -- along with the 16,000 or so other people who worked there -- to mandatory Diversity Training. It was a 16-hours-over-two-days tour-de-force of absolute bullshit, where the overriding theme was that "You White-Christian-Male-Straight-Guys are the absolute worst excuses for human beings ever documented...but you don't mean to be, really."
If you've never disliked people before, listen to that kind of crap for two days and then you most certainly will be disgusted by just about everyone.
The Second Time, was when I made the mistake of responding to a vile tirade of a female co-worker by getting just as obnoxious as she did. This particular person was infamous for her foul language and off-color humor and peculiarly-sexual comments, especially about how nice my ass looked to her, and what she'd like to do with me if she ever got me alone. She didn't even make any of that a secret; she would often yell it across several rows of cubicles to me, and everyone got a chuckle out of it (especially the gay guys). It was never a problem between us to trade in these heated-one-day/good-natured-the-next/naughty-all-the-time exchanges, but there was always a healthy respect; a recognition that there were, indeed, boundaries that should not be crossed.
Until she came at me one day like a menstrual banshee for some piece of work important to one of her projects that I was going to be, unavoidably, late with. Then the good-natured-foul-mouthed ribbing became a dressing down of my inadequacies as a human being. To which I replied:
"Take it easy, Jean...Don't get your tits in a knot."
Now the woman who openly remarked about my bodily features and sexual desirability was suddenly mortally offended by my reference to hers. In my defense, though, she did have an awesome rack. Anyways, off to an 8-hour "refresher" course in Diversity for me. I only stayed employed because Jean was known to use the foulest, coarsest language, and to comment frequently and loudly on the looks of the men in the office. That cost me a bonus that year, too.
The third experience was another "mandatory" situation; I would have to complete the Diversity Course as a requirement of employment. It didn't matter that I had two previous "Training" sessions; they didn't count so far as XYZ Corp was concerned because it wasn't their Diversity Course. I spent more time in that classroom than I did working there, because it wasn't long after that my contract was cancelled when the project I was hired to work on was no longer considered necessary. That particular session was a laugh riot, because there were several Hispanic employees in the room complaining that they couldn't get promotions because they weren't native English-speakers.
The "instructor" in that cluster-fuck, herself Hispanic, would sometimes have to switch to Spanish in order to explain a concept to someone who couldn't understand it in English. You can't make this shit up.
My final experience with Diversity Training came when I had a black male employee complain to me that he was not considered for a job (I had hired another person, a black woman, no less), and that he felt that in not giving him the job, I was a racist, showing a definite bias against black men (who made up about half of my staff, at that time. None of them got the job, nor complained about it, either). He called me a racist about 17 times during this exchange, and my temper had finally gotten the best of me, so that I blurted out:
"You didn't not get that job because you're black; I didn't give it to you because you're a fucking retard!"
Well, you can't make that kind of remark, even if it happens to be true, so off to Diversity Training for me once again. Once more into the fray of whining people who don't realize just how fucking ridiculous they sound with their petty, and often-unprovable, accusations. Accusations they only make because they're a) encouraged to do so, and b) know they can get away with the worst exaggerations or baseless claims, and c) hope to extort something for nothing by making them.
You Don't Know Gay!
*Sigh* It was bound to happen one day. As sure as Evolution created Little Green Apples and Snooki, at some point in my blogging journey I was certain to find a mailbox of angry readers all full of piss and vinegar about this viewpoint or that. That's okay; it's part of the process, and when you express your views on everything under the Sun, you have to expect that not everyone will agree with you, and that many people will take exception with something you've written.
There are four kinds of blog posts that you can write that will bring you an automatic, and often overwhelming, visceral response. The first is to defend the Jews. The Second is to make fun of Christians. The Third is to tell the truth, as you see it, about minorities.The Fourth, and perhaps the one that evokes the most visceral responses of all, is to write something about Gays.
The first accusation of all my gay responders is that I must be one of those super-secret self-hating gays myself, the sort that's deep in the closet and who just hasn't come to grips with my own sexuality. My personal confusion is expressed by the most vitriolic hyperbole upon the page. Sorry fellas, but this is patently false. I'm not Gay; I have no desire to pork another man in his ass, accept a penis in my mouth, or dress like Lady Gaga. I don't buy FDNY Beefcake calendars. I detest Enya and k.d. lang, and the Village People and Tim Gunn are not my personal heroes. My rectum is Exit-Only, thank you. I like women, and the more feminine they are, the better I like them.
And besides, it's about time you guys came up with a better retort than this one. It's worn and threadbare from overuse.
The second accusation they usually make is that I don't understand the problems of being a homosexual in modern society. To a certain extent, this is true, but then again, I don't engage in disgusting sexual acts that require you to wipe another man's shit off your appendages. Other than that, we all have the same problems; life is unfair, we will all eventually die, no one gets everything they desire.
I've heard all the complaints about the difficulties of being gay, mostly because I've been sent (banished) to Diversity Training more times than most people have had hot dinners. Modern American business makes a fetish of "Diversity", which is just a code word for "Black people get to be openly racist for a couple of days, just so we don't get sued". If there's anything that is absolutely-bet-the-farm-on-it certain to come up during a Diversity Training session, it's the eternal struggle between Gays and Blacks to compete with one another with overwrought horror stories as to who's discriminated against more. Once that fight starts, we White Guys, Jews and Asians sit back and watch the fireworks show. It's entertaining. Most of it is bullshit, too, but that's beside the point.
So no, I don't have first-hand experience of being gay. However, I've been surrounded by gay men and women most of my adult life, about two decades now. I have a highly-developed sense of "Gaydar", however, it's not foolproof, and my response to being confronted by an obviously-gay person is to...behave in the way I would expect them to behave towards me. This close and personal (but not too close and personal, if you get my drift) contact with the homosexual community in my daily life has given me some insights into the Gay Lifestyle (most of which, I would have been happy to remain ignorant of), which just reinforced something I think I always knew: it takes all kinds. It's just that some kinds are more entertaining than others.
I've known your stereotypical, flaming, Oscar Wilde gays. Your buttoned-down-deep-in-the-closet gays. Your I'm-so-fucking-gay-other-gays-say-holy-shit-you're-fucking-gay! gays. I've known the campy kind, the catty kind, the ones that never speak about it, and the ones who can't shut up about it. The ones that have been married to members of the opposite sex at some point in their lives and have families. The ones who think no one else knows they're gay and try to keep it a secret, but are betrayed by their behavior. The ones who can't stop cracking jokes that invariably have a gay element to them, and the one's who try to stick their gay attitude right under your nose 24/7. The Militant Gays, the Passive Gays, the Happy Gays, the Dramatic Gays, the Gays on the verge of suicide every goddamned day. The Attention Whores, the Out-to-Offend, the ones who use their Gayness as a weapon to extort better jobs, raises, and other benefits.
The Drama Queens, the Bomb-Throwers, the I Wish-I-Were-A-Man/Woman/Hermaphrodite kind, the I-Can-See-That-Guy-in-Gossamer-wings-and-Magic-wand-Ensemble. The Rugged Individualist, the Betty-Crocker-I've-Made-a-Pear-Tarte-Tatin-for-the-office, the Boy/Girl Next Door, The Always-on-the-Make kind,The Self-Mutilators, The Drug/Booze Addicts, The I-Have-No-Sense-of-Humor, the Can-Wake-The-Fucking-Dead-With-Their-Gay-Banter, and the limp-wristed-caricature, the Bon Vivant, and the Light-in-the-Loafers varieties.
I've made a list. I have known approximately 70 people (male, female and who-the-fuck-knows) who I either knew to be gay, or suspected of being gay, including the three-piece-Brooks-Brother's suit who was unceremoniously fired and escorted from the building for downloading Gay Porn, and who, come to think of it, hardly ever left his office or spoke a word to anyone. That one was a surprise.
I've heard the stories; freely-told, spilled in a moment of drunken camaraderie, or loudly proclaimed to the world during Diversity Class so as to ensure that a claim has been staked. This doesn't make me an "expert" on Gay, but it does make me an expert on this: you'll find as many varieties of Gay as you will Straight, and it's only individuals, not identity groups, that have ever made we want to attack someone with a ball-peen hammer. And perhaps a blunt butter knife.
So, please, spare me your drama about how "difficult" it is to be gay. It's difficult just being a human being, on a good day. Your "persecution" is my belly laugh; my "persecution" is to have to listen to your incessant whining about how "special" you are. Guess what? You aren't; at some point in all of our lives, we're all whining, whinging, hypocritical, heartless, careless, clueless douchebags with burdens to bear.
Such is life. Get over yourselves.
Update: In response to Jimmy H. in Lindenhurst, N.Y. who wants to know:
"Who was the most offensive/funniest gay dude u ever met?"
I don't know if Jimmy is looking for a date, or what,but to answer the question:
That would be the Jamaican gentlemen Iworked with on my first real job in 1985, and his phallo-centric Carribean lunch menu, which included such fine faire as Cowcock soup (yes, the description is accurate), goat balls cooked a dozen ways, and as many permutations of meat-on-a-stick as you might imagine.
After he had put on a show in eating it all, he would then settle in to read his Bible for the remainder of his lunch hour.
There are four kinds of blog posts that you can write that will bring you an automatic, and often overwhelming, visceral response. The first is to defend the Jews. The Second is to make fun of Christians. The Third is to tell the truth, as you see it, about minorities.The Fourth, and perhaps the one that evokes the most visceral responses of all, is to write something about Gays.
The first accusation of all my gay responders is that I must be one of those super-secret self-hating gays myself, the sort that's deep in the closet and who just hasn't come to grips with my own sexuality. My personal confusion is expressed by the most vitriolic hyperbole upon the page. Sorry fellas, but this is patently false. I'm not Gay; I have no desire to pork another man in his ass, accept a penis in my mouth, or dress like Lady Gaga. I don't buy FDNY Beefcake calendars. I detest Enya and k.d. lang, and the Village People and Tim Gunn are not my personal heroes. My rectum is Exit-Only, thank you. I like women, and the more feminine they are, the better I like them.
And besides, it's about time you guys came up with a better retort than this one. It's worn and threadbare from overuse.
The second accusation they usually make is that I don't understand the problems of being a homosexual in modern society. To a certain extent, this is true, but then again, I don't engage in disgusting sexual acts that require you to wipe another man's shit off your appendages. Other than that, we all have the same problems; life is unfair, we will all eventually die, no one gets everything they desire.
I've heard all the complaints about the difficulties of being gay, mostly because I've been sent (banished) to Diversity Training more times than most people have had hot dinners. Modern American business makes a fetish of "Diversity", which is just a code word for "Black people get to be openly racist for a couple of days, just so we don't get sued". If there's anything that is absolutely-bet-the-farm-on-it certain to come up during a Diversity Training session, it's the eternal struggle between Gays and Blacks to compete with one another with overwrought horror stories as to who's discriminated against more. Once that fight starts, we White Guys, Jews and Asians sit back and watch the fireworks show. It's entertaining. Most of it is bullshit, too, but that's beside the point.
So no, I don't have first-hand experience of being gay. However, I've been surrounded by gay men and women most of my adult life, about two decades now. I have a highly-developed sense of "Gaydar", however, it's not foolproof, and my response to being confronted by an obviously-gay person is to...behave in the way I would expect them to behave towards me. This close and personal (but not too close and personal, if you get my drift) contact with the homosexual community in my daily life has given me some insights into the Gay Lifestyle (most of which, I would have been happy to remain ignorant of), which just reinforced something I think I always knew: it takes all kinds. It's just that some kinds are more entertaining than others.
I've known your stereotypical, flaming, Oscar Wilde gays. Your buttoned-down-deep-in-the-closet gays. Your I'm-so-fucking-gay-other-gays-say-holy-shit-you're-fucking-gay! gays. I've known the campy kind, the catty kind, the ones that never speak about it, and the ones who can't shut up about it. The ones that have been married to members of the opposite sex at some point in their lives and have families. The ones who think no one else knows they're gay and try to keep it a secret, but are betrayed by their behavior. The ones who can't stop cracking jokes that invariably have a gay element to them, and the one's who try to stick their gay attitude right under your nose 24/7. The Militant Gays, the Passive Gays, the Happy Gays, the Dramatic Gays, the Gays on the verge of suicide every goddamned day. The Attention Whores, the Out-to-Offend, the ones who use their Gayness as a weapon to extort better jobs, raises, and other benefits.
The Drama Queens, the Bomb-Throwers, the I Wish-I-Were-A-Man/Woman/Hermaphrodite kind, the I-Can-See-That-Guy-in-Gossamer-wings-and-Magic-wand-Ensemble. The Rugged Individualist, the Betty-Crocker-I've-Made-a-Pear-Tarte-Tatin-for-the-office, the Boy/Girl Next Door, The Always-on-the-Make kind,The Self-Mutilators, The Drug/Booze Addicts, The I-Have-No-Sense-of-Humor, the Can-Wake-The-Fucking-Dead-With-Their-Gay-Banter, and the limp-wristed-caricature, the Bon Vivant, and the Light-in-the-Loafers varieties.
I've made a list. I have known approximately 70 people (male, female and who-the-fuck-knows) who I either knew to be gay, or suspected of being gay, including the three-piece-Brooks-Brother's suit who was unceremoniously fired and escorted from the building for downloading Gay Porn, and who, come to think of it, hardly ever left his office or spoke a word to anyone. That one was a surprise.
I've heard the stories; freely-told, spilled in a moment of drunken camaraderie, or loudly proclaimed to the world during Diversity Class so as to ensure that a claim has been staked. This doesn't make me an "expert" on Gay, but it does make me an expert on this: you'll find as many varieties of Gay as you will Straight, and it's only individuals, not identity groups, that have ever made we want to attack someone with a ball-peen hammer. And perhaps a blunt butter knife.
So, please, spare me your drama about how "difficult" it is to be gay. It's difficult just being a human being, on a good day. Your "persecution" is my belly laugh; my "persecution" is to have to listen to your incessant whining about how "special" you are. Guess what? You aren't; at some point in all of our lives, we're all whining, whinging, hypocritical, heartless, careless, clueless douchebags with burdens to bear.
Such is life. Get over yourselves.
Update: In response to Jimmy H. in Lindenhurst, N.Y. who wants to know:
"Who was the most offensive/funniest gay dude u ever met?"
I don't know if Jimmy is looking for a date, or what,but to answer the question:
That would be the Jamaican gentlemen Iworked with on my first real job in 1985, and his phallo-centric Carribean lunch menu, which included such fine faire as Cowcock soup (yes, the description is accurate), goat balls cooked a dozen ways, and as many permutations of meat-on-a-stick as you might imagine.
After he had put on a show in eating it all, he would then settle in to read his Bible for the remainder of his lunch hour.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)